The airport felt colder than usual, or maybe it was just the stares that made it feel that way. I kept my head low, gripping my boarding pass tightly, like it was the only thing keeping me together. The scar across my face was still fresh, still healing, but it already felt like it had carved itself into who I was. People didn’t see me anymore—they saw the scar first. A month earlier, I’d been in a car accident. I was just a passenger, but that didn’t matter. When the airbag deployed, a shard of glass sliced deep into my skin. The doctors acted quickly, stitching me up carefully, but they couldn’t stop the jagged line from forming. My dermatologist had called it “early scar tissue.” Raw, red, shiny. It stretched from above my hairline, cutting down across my brow, over my cheek, and finally ending at my jaw. Part of my eyebrow was gone for good, and the deepest part of the cut left a hollow in my cheek. For weeks, I kept my face wrapped in bandages. At first, I couldn’t even bring myself to look in a mirror.

But the wounds healed. The bandages came off. And there it was. My new face. My friends tried to make me feel better. They called it badass. Some said it made me look fierce, even mysterious. I tried to believe them, but it was hard when strangers stared or flinched when they looked at me. Every morning, I applied the creams and ointments the doctor recommended, hoping to keep the scar clean and hydrated. But no matter how carefully I followed instructions, the scar remained angry and red. I knew it would fade eventually, but part of me feared it never truly would.

That morning, I boarded the plane early. It was better that way. Fewer people to stare. I slid into my window seat, put my headphones on, and closed my eyes. I just wanted to get through the flight. Quiet. Uneventful. It didn’t last long. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” a man’s voice grumbled nearby. “These are our seats?” His tone was sharp, biting. “Row 5B and 5C,” a woman snapped back. “Just sit down.” There was a lot of shuffling as they took their seats next to me. I kept my eyes closed. Maybe they wouldn’t notice. No such luck. “I can’t believe this,” the man continued. “We pay for these seats and end up next to—” he cut himself off. “Next to what?” the woman asked. Then she saw me. “Oh. You’ve got to be joking.” I felt her eyes burning into me. My heart raced. Please, just stop. “Hey, lady!” the man barked. I slowly opened my eyes. He flinched when he saw me. Then he scowled. “Can’t you cover that up or something?” I was too stunned to respond. “Tom,” the woman hissed, covering her nose with her sleeve.

“That’s disgusting. How did they even let her on board?” “Exactly!” Tom leaned forward, pointing at me. “This is a public space. People shouldn’t have to look at… that.” My face flushed with shame, but no words came out. “Are you just going to sit there?” the woman sneered. Tom flagged down a flight attendant.

“Hey! Can you do something about this? My girlfriend is freaking out.” The attendant approached calmly. “Is there a problem, sir?” Tom jabbed his thumb in my direction. “Yeah, there’s a problem. Look at her. She’s upsetting my girlfriend. Can you move her?” The attendant glanced at me. Her expression softened before she turned back to them. “Sir, all passengers are entitled to their seats.” “But she’s gross!” Tom snapped. “She should move or cover up.” “I can’t even look,” the woman whined. “I’ll throw up.” The attendant’s tone hardened. “Sir, ma’am, lower your voices. This behavior isn’t acceptable.” Tom scoffed. “Behavior? She’s the one scaring people!” The attendant crouched toward me. “Miss, are you alright?” I nodded stiffly. She straightened. “I’ll be back,” she said, then walked toward the cockpit.

I stared out the window, trying not to cry. The cabin was quiet except for the hum of the engines. Then the intercom crackled. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain said, “harassment and discrimination of any kind will not be tolerated. Please treat your fellow passengers with dignity.” A ripple of murmurs spread through the cabin. Heads turned toward us. The attendant returned and faced the couple. “You’ll be moving to seats 22B and 22C.” “What?” Tom barked. “We’re not moving!” “This isn’t negotiable,” she said firmly. “Your behavior has disrupted the flight.” “This is ridiculous!” the woman snapped. “Why are we being punished?” “Your new seats are ready,” the attendant said, unmoving. Grumbling, they gathered their things and shuffled down the aisle. Someone clapped. Then another. Applause spread through the cabin. I bit my lip to keep from crying again—this time, from relief.

The attendant turned to me. “Miss, I’m sorry for what happened. We have an open seat in business class. Would you like to move?” “I don’t want to be a bother,” I whispered. “You’re not,” she assured me kindly. “Please, let us take care of you.” I nodded. In my new seat, she brought me coffee and cookies. I gazed out at the sky, breathing easier. For the first time in weeks, I let myself cry quietly. My friends had said I was still me. Scars and all. “You’re fierce,” they’d said. And now, I believed them. As the plane soared ahead, I finally felt something I hadn’t in a long time—hope.